Perfect Weapon. Amy J. Fetzer
the bomb squad, but we search for survivors outside the Cradle and isolate them. Do not allow anyone to get inside, understood?”
“Even the bomb detection?”
“Even them. We don’t know yet what we’re dealing with.” Bomb squads expected explosions, not what was down in that lab. He checked the time and knew it would take him at least an hour to get there. “I want you on a chopper to meet me at helo pad two. You drive my car to the site.”
“What about the FBI, sir?”
“They aren’t aware. It’ll be forest rangers and local cops first if anyone’s hurt. Keep them back. Say nothing. This is my ball game.” He hated being questioned. It was his job to question, to secure secrets, to hide them if necessary. And if the Cradle really had fallen, this mistake was going to take some fast moving. “Wickum?”
“Still here, sir.”
Cisco could hear the man breathing hard. “Get a CBC team on standby.”
“Good God.”
Gabe cut the line and steered the car toward the Cradle.
7:31 AM
A truck rolling past shook the asphalt under her feet. Above her, gray clouds billowed. Rain would be just so fitting, she thought and kept walking. She pulled her jacket closed to cover the blood smeared across her shirt, but she smelled it. It was in her hair, seeping into her skin. Hurrying into a convenience store, she glanced at the clerk, then slipped into the restroom. She locked the door and sighed back against it, feeling ridiculously safe. Pushing off, she walked the three steps to the sink and gripped the edge. She couldn’t look at herself in the cracked mirror. She’d see more evidence of Tanner’s death if she did.
Chris’s face flashed in her mind, like a snapshot, clear, quick. Then the man in the hall, the ice blue eyes in a black hood, pointing a gun at her. She’d never forget the way his eyes had almost glowed as he aimed at her heart. She hoped her shot got him between the baby blues. But she doubted it. It was the first time she’d ever held a gun.
The Marine covered in foliage like a Yeti was almost stranger than the rest of her morning. Why was he wearing a Gilly suit? Snipers wore stuff like that. If he was part of the attack, then why save her life. She pulled the weapon from her skirt, wondering why no one had noticed it—since her jacket wasn’t big enough to conceal it well. Her hand trembled as she laid it on the edge of the sink. Her fingers were crusted with drying blood. Suddenly, she turned to the toilet and lost the fight with her granola bar. She choked and coughed, then rinsed her mouth and her face. She washed the blood from her hands. The water turned bright pink and she forced herself to look in the mirror. Her blouse was stained with blood but most of it was low, and she buttoned up her jacket. Smoothing her hair back, she picked out leaves and twigs, then brushed at her skirt and jacket, wincing as she hit the cut on her arm. Stripping out of her torn panty hose, she pitched them in the trash.
She replaced the gun in her waistband, frowning when something crackled. She reached behind herself and expecting leaves, she got her notes. Oh God. This information was never supposed to leave the Cradle. Stuffing it back into place, she matched it with the gun and left the rest room. Follow procedure, she told herself as she walked immediately to the phone at the back. A TV blared from somewhere in the front of the store. A bell jingled when someone came in. A couple of people shopped up and down the narrow aisles. Early tourists. She heard a child fussing, then glanced at a little boy trying to reach the slush machine. She was tempted to lean out and help him. Instead, she turned her back and dialed.
The line didn’t even ring. “9854-Kilo,” she blurted.
“Dr. Hale?”
“The Cradle is down.”
“Are you injured?”
“No. Get me out of here.”
“Where are you?”
People were staring. She cupped the phone. “Where the hell do you think I am, dammit!”
“Please state your position, Miss Hale.”
She was barely holding it together and his “calm the womenfolk” tone shredded her last nerve. “It’s Doctor Hale. I’m at the convenience store past the third mark. Now get me out of here. There are killers on that mountain!”
“Rendezvous at mark eight.”
Sydney frowned. “There’s nothing there.”
“We’ll come for you.”
The line went dead. Sydney hung up, daring a glance around. No one noticed her. Trying to look like she belonged when she didn’t, she pushed her hair back and walked toward the front as if she had a car waiting. Outside, she forced herself not to run, kept her pace even, and lowered her arms to keep from clutching her churning stomach and looking more obvious than she was.
“Fine. It’ll be fine.” Like hell.
What the attackers might have taken from the facility really terrified her. The cold room was supposed to be impenetrable. But then, so was the Cradle. Her mind shifted to the man in the Gilly suit. She hoped he’d gotten the hell out of there. He’d been stupid to go back. But then, he was a Marine. Which meant courage most often won out over personal safety.
Considering what had happened, it was a little too convenient to think that an armed Marine, complete with buddies, was in the area. A four-man team. Snipers maybe? It was a U.S. government project.
Her mind sifted, plucked at information. It’s what she did for a living. Gather data, theorize. Experiment, test, try a new route. If this had been a chemical reaction she could have figured that out easy. But she had a result without the cause. Why hit the Cradle? Why kill a bunch of tech nerds?
Okay here’s your stupid card, Syd. It was top top secret. That alone attracted bad guys. But the Cradle was more covert than the NSA, and aside from an elite group of military and finance council officials, only a couple of handpicked agents knew about its existence.
Now everyone would.
Sydney stopped at the appointed mark, glanced up and down the road, then did as ordered. She stepped into the forest to wait.
She knew what those people were after. The elements in the cold room. Maybe the bomb. No one was supposed to know about that, either. She touched the notes wedged into her panties. If they were after her research, then they had an incomplete formula.
She had the rest.
And now, she had the only copy.
Two
7:31 A.M.
Like an ancient Apache, Jack put his hand on the ground, feeling the vibrations.
The trembling stopped as quickly as it had started. Frightened deer loped deeper into the valley, away from the scent of blood. Smaller animals dug frantically into hollows and underbrush. Earthquake? Cave-in? Crouching, he sniffed the air, scenting only mist and morning.
Slipping his binoculars from his leg pocket, he sighted on the mountaintop. His fingers flexed, and he wished they were around the killer’s throat. Tucked against the truck fender, Jack examined the area three-sixty. He was far enough from Skyline Drive not to feel the rumble of trucks or buses. No personal vehicles could have made such a rumble anyway. So what caused the shaking? There was nothing, no one. And, there was no easy line of sight for shots accurate enough to kill three men a hundred yards apart. That meant more than one shooter.
He was hoping for a head to scalp. Instead, he was alone with three dead friends and no one to blame.
And possibly with a shooter still sighting on him.
He threw a fistful of rocks, keeping low and expecting the soft pop of silenced gunfire. None came, but he still wasn’t taking chances and using the trees for cover, he moved slowly back to the point where he’d first seen the woman. He found large footprints, blood smeared on the underbrush. The man Jack had shot